Penitence and Sacrifice
by FEARtheDOOMSLAYER
Summary: On a small world unaware of the galaxy at large, a single conflict marks the arrival of numerous violent guests from far away stars. All of them have lost, many of them have sacrificed; but how far is anyone willing to go when the last of ancient grudges between dead gods come to light on this distant planet? Rated M because Warhammer.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: Hi! This is the first story I've put up on this site, or in fact _any_ site. So, thanks ahead of time for reading, and any feedback at all is appreciated; you know the deal. Also, don't expect anything approaching a reasonable or consistent upload schedule. Sorry about that in advance.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own nor claim to own anything relating to the Warhammer 40k universe, nor RWBY, or anything of the sort.**

A darkening sun's rays fell upon the lands of a foreign world. Golden light stretched out from the horizon's edge, spilling over dark, autumnal leaves. Trees gently swung in a light, albeit chilling, breeze. The ground – coated in a wild layer of grass, dirt, and gravel – bore a long carpet of those same fallen red-and-yellow leaves.

It was still. A quiet, and very calm forest.

Coal-black, lupine creatures wander between the boughs. Chitinous, bony armour bedecks their forms, tough plates over their bodies and thick spines extending from their backs. Some are more ursine, far larger but no less monstrous. All of them bear glowing ember eyes, a certain cruel cunning within their gleam.

A yellow giant took careful note of that stillness, even as he watched his targets. They were clustered together, sniffing the air, searching for something. _Most likely him_.

Reticules and tactica in his visor highlight them, documenting the size of the pack and the age of its members. He has yet to decide which will die first. The Machine-Spirit concludes its assessment in agreement with his own.

_They are like Orks_, he has noted, _kill the leader and their ability to be a threat evaporates_.

It is just as simple to spot the leaders, too. Just like the greenskins, these creatures lead through sheer might. The largest, most dangerous of the beasts were always the Alpha, without fail.

Unlike the Orks, the shadowy creatures are _vastly_ easier to kill, and actually _less intelligent_. It is quite the achievement.

Plan of battle laid out, he steps into the light, and cycles his immense suit of armour fully online. They are on him in the span of a heartbeat. His gun is firing in even less.

It is a big, bulky weapon. A relic from his own past. From a much darker time. It is a Godwyn-Ultima Pattern Bolter, and it screams its wrath into the world as it fires quick, two-round bursts. .75 calibre self-propelled mass-reactive explosive shells are spat out of the gun in pairs, flung at supersonic speeds towards their targets.

Each shot impacts with thunderous force, punching through bone and burrowing deep within. _Then they detonate_. Most die messily, the blast liquifying their innards but failing to take apart their organic armour, gore spraying from between its cracks and out from the entry wound.

The bigger ones survive the first shot. Some get lucky, and duck or dive in time for the shot to merely ricochet off their carapace and deeper into the forest. That is why he is firing in bursts.

He has 28 shots. By the time the first of the beasts reach him, it is cycling on empty. The pack is also notably lacking in 19 members. This does absolutely nothing to slow them down.

The boltgun is mag-locked to his right leg, and his sidearm is brought up. It is anointed in the grey matter of the first faux-wolf meets him, swung through its skull and crushing the brain-case of his first howling attacker. It is thrown aside by the blow to the side of its face. He levels the bolt pistol in the same motion that caves in its head.

It has far fewer shots than the full-sized boltgun, but 12 more shots are still 12 more dead.

Two shots fail to kill outright, and the yellow giant is forced to finish off the prey with followup rounds for both. 10 more of the pack are dead, and then they've finally reached him – very noticeably thinned out, by more than half, but that is still 18 wolves that meet him in melee.

One hand – his left – slams the pistol back into its holster at his hip, while the other tears a weapon from his back. It is long; nearly as long as he is tall, and beautiful.

Bright white is the blade, a curved axe-head atop a long haft that leant itself to one- or two-handing the weapon. Red, leathery material binds the grip, wrapped over the haft carefully. Just beneath the head and behind the "beard" of the blade sits a thrumming generator, and jutting out from the opposite side of the axe-head is a spike shaped into a wing. As soon as his fingers wrap around the grip, lightning arcs around the head, and the Axe Encarmine is torn from its holster on his back.

Right as the great weapon comes down for the first time, some of the pack are intelligent enough to recognise that they have made a terrible mistake in pursuing him as prey.

He is quite clearly a predator.

The hissing, crackling Axe Encarmine tears the first wolf in half with a diagonal swing, the weight and Power Field doing more to achieve so violent a result than the self-sharpening monomolecular edge. He follows it up with another bisecting strike, and then another after that.

His targets at range were chosen carefully, and for a reason beyond thinning them out. He picked off the wolves at the edges of their charge, forcing the pack to bunch together to avoid his wrath, and close in almost in single file. One of his first shots took the head off their leader, leaving them blind to his strategies. He is unsure if their claws could punch through his armour, and has no wish to test it – so he forces them to attack him on his own terms, and prevents them from swarming him in a great enough number to pose any significant threat. It is how he fights Tyranids.

They are neither in a large enough horde nor are they smart enough to be compared to the Hive Mind in anything other than their passing similarity in tactics.

So he cuts them apart with impunity, each terrific arc of the axe tearing another in half, spraying him in vibrant red blood that the Power Field fails to disintegrate in its limited time of contact.

Not one of them realises how he has manipulated them into killing themselves, and he is soon left with only the three ursine monsters and the pack's sub-leader; their second most intelligent, the Beta to their Alpha. It is smaller than its three surviving comrades, but the flicker in its eyes betray an emotion beyond unending hatred – _fear_. It has realised that it is going to die. That it is going to die _violently_.

The yellow giant savours that fact, even as he meets the bears with his blade.

They come at him as one. He sidesteps one charge and slams a knee into the other's skull-mask, crumpling it on impact, simultaneously bringing the axe around in a heavy swing into the third right as it comes around its concussed comrade. Unlike the first one to taste its bite, its solid edge actually plays an important role: so great was the ursine creature's mass that it very nearly got stuck in its flubber.

But, completing the swing only mildly slowed, the beast was sawed clean in half at the waist. It was inevitable – the weapon was designed to kill _Astartes_. A single faux-bear barely slowed the blade.

The first one's retaliatory swipe glanced off his pauldron, raking the metal but failing to break through its ceramite.

He rotates with the blow, bringing his blade with him – this time, in one, swift movement, the Axe is forced into a brutal downwards chop, tearing the beast nearly clean in two down the middle. It tears down, and out through its stomach, the beast's halves slumping over as the Axe finally completes its visceral duties.

Turning again, he is struck before the blade can be brought to face. A pitch-dark mass slams into him, an animal's cry of rage on its lips and teeth bared for his throat.

The Beta had tackled him.

He rolls with the impact, tumbling to the ground with a wolf atop him. Using the motion to his advantage, the yellow giant kicked out, slamming his sabatons into its stomach, and knocking it clear. At once, he rolled back to his feet, relic-weapon raised and ready for the next attack.

The Beta struck again slashing out with a clawed hand. This time, the swing was parried. Claws scrabbled along the side of the head, sent soaring off-target by the deflection, trailing ashes.

In the same moment, that wing-spike slams into the extended limb, and there is an all-too-loud _crunch_ of bones breaking as it slams home, only slightly cutting open the flesh as it punches in – but the limb is rendered useless nonetheless.

It pulls back at the pain, and tries to retreat. In doing so, it left itself vulnerable; the spike comes crashing down once again, shattering the Beta's left leg just above the knee. Crying out again, the wolf collapses to the ground. So too is its opposite leg broken, and then the last arm bearing claws.

_Immobilised_, thinks the giant, _excellent_.

He slides his axe back into its sheath, and steps over the fallen Beta's broken body. His helmet is removed with a _hiss_. Gauntleted fingers come down, and grip tightly to its scalp. Both hands hold its skull, hold it by its dome.

Fingers force their way under the bone mask it wears, and he tears it off. The wolf screeches in pain at the motion. Before progressing any further, the giant slips it onto a loop at his hip; there are already 9 others on it, a wire passing through the eye-holes in the masks.

With a _crunch_ and a _tear_, its skull is broken open. Fragments of it spray the dirt, and it ceases its struggling and its yowling.

One hand grabs the organ in its skull – to call such a thing a _brain_ would be sorely mistaken – and pulls it free. It is rapidly shovelled into the giant's mouth, and swallowed almost whole.

Then he freezes up, and he twitches slightly. His face is twisted into a grimace, and he winces with every slight twitch, his eyes unfocused and his vision hazy. For a time, he simply stands there.

"Hmph." he grunts out as the moment ends. The helmet, its face twisted into a permanent snarl, is slid back over his head, and releases another _hiss_ as it locks in place. Inside the helm, his chin taps against a pad at the helm's bottom, releasing a double-click. A single-click response comes back in half a second.

"Last pack cleared out," he begins to speak into his vox, "members cut down with minimal losses. Forty bolt shells expended. Fifty two slain. Returning from patrol now."

His voice is deep, but smooth, flowing. Were it significantly higher, one might be able to call it lyrical.

Another voice filters into his ears, only slightly muffled by static. It is similarly deep, but grizzled, baritone. The transmission is a single word. "Acknowledged."

The giant casts one last careful look over the field of battle, and notes that the corpses have already begun to dissipate. They are breaking down, disintegrating, fading into a mist that in turn vanishes into the air. So too is all the gore. Even the blood on his person and the flesh stuck on his armour. All that remains are the bones.

And then he turns, marching away from the former scene of carnage.

…

It is night by the time he has returned.

Pale moonlight falls upon the canopy, halted from reaching the ground below, and bathing the world beneath the trees in shadow. Small spaces – gaps, really – in the overgrowth reveal the drifting celestial body in high orbit.

He never once bothers looking further than the treetops. His march is quick, deliberate; measured, but no slower for it. Whirring servomotors and hissing synthetic myofibrils resound in his ears, but go unheard. The noise is simply filtered out. The thump of his footsteps face a similar fate, but are not quite as ignored.

The giant sees them long before they do him.

Autosenses and transhuman organs pick out the gate and its wall from a great distance, piercing the gloom with ease.

Steel and primitive rockcrete are its materials, with its outside bedecked in ordered wiring that he can see faintly sparking in the darkness, long razor wire-wrapped spikes from near the top making the structure somewhat concave. Atop the wall – 5 metres tall, half that thick – walk humanoid sentries, their vision aided by fat floodlights that turn of their own accord to light up the forestry. Heavy stubbers stand nearby the sentries, manned, their gunners scanning cautiously.

Of the sentries themselves, he can see their simple flak armour-equivalents, and the overly-colourful autoguns they carry. Long, slim, blocky weapons that remind him of some lasgun patterns. Ceramic ballistic plates in tough pouches. Patrols walk in groups of four or five, all covering each other. He knows that there are many more inside the town itself.

They are utterly unready for an attack by more than one pack of the umbral monsters.

As he draws close to their gate, two of the stubber-gunners snap to track him immediately, while the two nearest patrols draw in to investigate, stocks to shoulders. It passes almost as quickly as it arrived, weapons crews relaxing and returning to scanning, while the patrols lower their weapons and stand up from their semi-crouch. One of them – to the giant's left – jogs along the wall, stopping above the gate.

"Good hunting?" She calls down to him, rifle slid into a front-mounted holster, hands scrabbling at a panel that illuminates her form for a moment. She is clad in a grey-green uniform, overlaid with flak plates and combat rigging. Only her face is exposed, even then still only barely.

Her skin is a plain, tanned bronze. Eyes the colour of the void stare out from under the helmet, while messy strands of golden hair hang out from the helm's rim. She is tall. For a mortal, anyway. Her frame is neither thinly- nor thickly-built.

Approaching the gate that has started to open, he decides to respond. "It was satisfactory."

She chuckles at the response, though he does not quite understand why. There is very little about the statement he believes to be humorous. It was spoken entirely matter-of-factly.

"Yeah, I'll bet, Talos." Her chuckling ceased quickly, but it did not solve his conundrum. "Anyway, how many Grimm didya kill? A hundred? Two?"

Resolving to figure it out later, and now passing the threshold between the (relatively) small gap in the fortifications, he answered her truthfully. "Ten packs. Four hundred and ninety two Beowolves, thirty three Ursae, two younger Deathstalkers."

The woman blinked down at him, mouthing the numbers for a moment, before finally giving her reply. "That's a lot."

"It is."

That's the last thing they say to each other, before Talos has walked beyond her natural hearing range. By now, he is within the town proper.

It is, he believes, accurately surmised as "quaint". The buildings are situated a good distance away from the main wall, surrounded by a much smaller (and weaker) wall. Unlike the main one, the secondary is still under construction, and it is plain to see; much of it is unfinished, while what will someday be the second gate has yet to even begin being made.

But the town itself is not great in size, though the Space Marine is aware that he was perhaps not the best judge of scale. Only a few hundred citizens called the village their home. Most of the housing is wooden, but still well-made. It is supposedly a popular halfway point when traveling.

He walks until he reaches the centre of town, passing by quiet homes and darkened storefronts, stopping only in front of a large, squat, reinforced concrete bunker.

The local PDF-equivalent's barracks. And the town's emergency bunker.

Talos pushes through the door, twisting to fit, but still making quite the racket as he forces his way through a doorway not designed to fit a Space Marine. But, as soon as he is through, the structure is more than large enough to comfortably allow his bulk.

The topmost layer, the building exposed to the world, is purely a defensive structure. Much alike the outer wall, there is electrified razor wire looping around its top. Small slits in the walls left murder holes for defenders to shoot through. Dotting the room are large ammunition caches, boxes full of belts of colourful bullets and double-stacked magazines.

At its centre is a stairwell, leading deeper into the ground, ending in a large metal blast-door. Just beside it, there rests a table, a surprisingly faithful recreation of the surrounding area and the town itself laid out atop it.

Another giant clad in lighter, unpowered pitch-black carapace plate stands over it. Light distorts around his form, the cloak about his shoulders warping it. An assault shotgun is slung around his torso, hanging over his stomach; similarly umbral, long and blocky, a drum magazine and a thick, suppressed barrel. His face is exposed, helmet set down on an edge of the table.

He is pale. Incredibly pale. Alabaster, nearly snow-white skin frames eyes that are the exact opposite, the colour of the spaces between stars. Long, dark hair is tied back into a tight bun. A dull grey metal ear-piece sits on the right side of his face, and a curving microphone sits in front of his mouth. Over his head hangs a small name-tag, provided by the Machine-Spirit.

_Cor_.

He does not even glance up from the table, laying down another token of a skull in the forest. "Acknowledged." he mutters into the device, frowning. A number in the yellow-armoured Astartes' vision flickers and shifts downwards, by 23 points.

Talos glances at the table, and notes the skull-tokens, their positions focused around the western side of the town. "Their numbers are increasing," he says, "and their age, too."

It was a simple observation, albeit notable. "I know." is his comrade's response.

Now he looks up, facing the fully-armoured Space Marine. An eyebrow is raised as he takes in Talos' form, looking over the thoroughly battered war-plate. His eyes lock onto the fresh claw marks on one shoulder, and on the chest near the neck. The rest of the damage has been there longer than the Scout Sergeant has known the other Marine.

"Lamenter luck." Talos supplies in explanation.

Cor snorts at that, before returning to his previous stony expression. "I've questioned the locals about them. These 'Grimm'," he began, "and much of what I've been told is worrying."

Pointing into the woods, he continued, "Supposedly, they've been here longer than humanity, which is according to them at least a thousand years but most probably ten thousand or more."

"Equally concerning is their ability to age. Not to die of it, but grow stronger from it; smarter, larger, more resilient," he continued, crossing his arms, "which doesn't sound dissimilar to another enemy we're familiar with."

Shaking his head, he tapped at a device one of the villagers had given him, bringing up a pict-capture of one of the more common breeds, a Beowolf. "You've no doubt grown to know these beasts just as well as the damned Orks. What I find concerning is the variety of forms they can take, as well as the potential of their elders; if there are any as old as the Imperium, we simply don't have the numbers nor weapons to engage them."

Snapping the device closed and laying it down on the table next to his helmet, Cor returns to leaning over the battle-map. He looks down on it, eying the forests with intensity, as if trying to discern a pattern from the Marines' past few patrols.

"However," he spoke up again, "what's most worrying is their sheer number. Not one of the villagers could tell me where they came from, nor how they reproduce. Apparently there are so many that some towns have quite literally been drowned under an umbral tide."

Cor turns to face the bigger Marine once more, and assumes his position when speaking to a usually younger Astartes. "We cannot end this threat on our own. If the locals have been surviving for the better part of the last ten millennia, then they know far better than we do as to how to best handle these 'Grimm'."

Talos hums his assent, then adds his own piece. "They have most likely forgotten far more about them than we will ever know ourselves. More than that, we simply do not have the munitions for extended operations this far from Imperial hands. It is wise to trust in them for support in this matter."

The sergeant grunts in agreement. He checks his combat-webbing quickly, frisking through pouches and slings for his equipment, before quickly coming to a conclusion. "I have four more magazines for my shotgun, and a few flasks for my pistol," Cor says, "or approximately two hundred shells and thirty to forty blasts."

Taking this as his cue to respond, the yellow Astartes replies with "I am facing a similar situation. Fourteen more magazines for both boltguns, three hundred and twelve bolts in total."

Grimacing, the Scout didn't give any response. How he feels is clear enough regardless. Instead, he returns to scrutinising the map, knowing full well that it would not yield any solutions. He had come to accept long ago that they were almost certainly going to die on this world, forgotten by all.

He just didn't think it would come so soon.

Sighing, he lets the anger escape him. It would do him no good to feel bitter.

"One piece of good news," the Scout began, "is that their call for assistance from their Capital-equivalent has apparently been answered."

Underneath his helmet, the Veteran raises an eyebrow. "How so?"

Gesturing flippantly in a generally easterly direction, Cor answers him. "According to the locals, at least one 'Huntsman Team', at most three, as well as material aid to assist in the event of a siege. Supposedly, it should reach us within the next few local planetary hours."

Laughing slightly, he shakes his head, and continues. "And when I asked them what in the Emperor's name a Huntsman Team was, I didn't get an answer."

Talos hums in acceptance of that fact, but certainly not comprehension. It seems to him that a storm is brewing, but he cannot quite express how, nor _why_. Something about the speed at which the capital was responding, alongside the gradual increase in Grimm around the town, did not sit well with him. His lack of response is enough to draw the two back into silence.

"Acknowledged." suddenly speaks Cor, planting yet another token into the forest. Just alike Talos, something about the situation did not sit well with him; unlike his battle-brother, it was not borne out of a long history of sorrow, but rather out of simple skill and instinct.

Looking down at how the tokens sat in the forest, at how they have concentrated so utterly to one side of the town, and how the opposite was completely barren of any activity whatsoever, his hackles unconsciously raise.

Glancing up from the battle-map to his yellow-clad comrade, he speaks once more. "Alaric and Eygil are returning. We'll be meeting them at the gate."

And, not a moment passing from that, he marches out the door once more.

Talos watches him breeze through, luminous cyan eyepieces tracing his path, and follows a scant few seconds afterwards.


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: Okay, so, I've got to give a little bit of warning, I think, maybe also clarify some things. First of all, this is 40k, there's a Lamenter, and so a **_**lot**_** of people are going to die. The only ones I can assure you to be completely safe are Ruby and Zwei. And I have certain plans for Talos, so he's also safe up until a certain point; you'll know when that is.**

**Second of all, this fic isn't just going to be Bolter Porn. A number of non-Space Marines are planned to show up, and, if you can't already tell from the first Chapter, the Space Marines aren't **_**invincible**_**.**

**Lastly, just ahead of time, Alaric is **_**NOT**_** wielding a particular Japanese sword. They're actually based on the IRL Kriegsmesser and Langes Messer swords. I realised how the description may be … misinterpreted, and felt I should do something to clear up any confusion.**

**Oh! Also, if you like this, I'd strongly recommend you check out the two fics that have inspired this one so much – **For Those We Cherish**, about the whole Lamenters Chapter arriving on Remnant and one of the best pieces of fanfiction I have ever read, and **Ours is the Iniquitous**, about a trio of Space Marines on Remnant, and one of the finest examples of Grimdark written correctly.**

**If you're going to check out **FTWC**, then don't look for the one on FFnet; that one hasn't been updated in a long time since I last checked it, while the one on the Spacebattles forum is much more complete.**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing related to Warhammer 40k nor anything related to RWBY.**

Midday approaches, and yet there is still no sign of the Capital's promised support.

Talos is stood upon the wall, looking into the sky but not seeing it, staring into the eastern horizon but not watching it, unmoving and immovable.

Autosenses spot the approach of two figures from his right, walking along the wall, one tall, the other very short. The tug of the Machine-Spirit's attention is enough to pull him from his past. His eyes focus, old faces he can never forget fading back into the depths of his past.

And then he turns, just slightly, to face the pair that approach him. The movement, to them, is sudden, unexpected, abrupt. Both are surprised that he noticed their approach. So is he.

The tall one is the selfsame sentry from the night previous, this time without her armour, in what the Space Marine assumes to be the local casual dress – a white short-sleeved shirt and long pants made of a rough grey material – accompanied by an adolescent, wearing a red wool coat, similar rough blue pants, and a pair of brown boots.

A small corner of his mind recoils at their presence.

More of it is glad for the distraction.

He's never been very good at telling children apart, but this one very distinctly resembles the elder of the two, with a similar build, hair colour, and void-black pupils. Unlike the sentry, the younger one lacks the muscle tone of an experienced soldier, but aside from that, resembled her strongly.

They also have a disturbingly feline tail.

That same corner of his mind begins to scream, but he silences its combat-response with practiced ease.

Both groups stand there, for a time, simply looking at each other, neither quite sure what to say to the other. The off-duty sentry awkwardly rubs at the back of her head, and begins to say something, before quite suddenly shutting her mouth with a click. Her sibling clings close, standing just behind her legs, embarrassedly staring up at the giant with undisguised awe.

Eventually, Talos simply raises a palm, before stating a flat "Hello."

That seemingly galvanises them into action, as the sentry gives off a peel of laughter; once again, the Marine is lost as to why.

Shaking her head, planting a hand on each hip, she gives a wide grin, right as she finishes her short chuckle. Then she sighs. "Hi." And then she chuckles again.

He still does not quite understand.

"Well," she says after a moment, "looks like both of us are just social butterflies, aren't we?"

It is supposed to be a joke, he thinks, though the expression is lost on him. But based on linguistics, it is apparently self-deprecating, although it may also just be a statement of fact. For a moment, he sorely wishes he knew what a "butterfly" was.

But he nods his head in tentative agreement, which is apparently the correct response, as it draws out giggles in the young one cowering behind her knees.

There is silence once more, and it stretches out for several long seconds, before the sentry breaks it once again. "Y'know, I don't think we've ever gotten properly introduced; I just know your name from the local scuttlebutt."

"No," he replies after a heartbeat's time to look over his recent memories, "we haven't."

It's apparently enough to kill the conversation stone-dead. Grimacing at his own struggle to interact, Talos resolved to re-learn how to speak with mortals, especially considering they were likely to be working closely together in the future. He simply cannot allow every interaction to be this stilted; though, then again, he's unsure if it even _is_ stilted. The fact that he's so uncertain only convinces him further to learn the local customs.

She lightly coughs into her fist, then speaks again. "Well, I'm Sigrid Vermillion."

Then she sticks out her right hand, fingers towards him, palm sideways. Now, _this_ is one custom that he does still know, and he responds in kind.

His own gauntleted fist reaches down to her much smaller hand, wrapping around it gently. It is so large that it completely envelopes her own, and he finds it somewhat comical as she tugs the grip up and down once. When Sigrid pulls back, his immense fist slides open, permitting her freedom.

"Talos Arael." he says back, dredging up long-lost memories of this most ancient of greetings. As far as the Marine can tell, you must give your name back in response.

And, just as they were about to fall back into silence, a flash of remembrance plays across Sigrid's face, and she reaches down for the youngling behind her knees. "Oh, and, uh, I almost forgot – this…" she begins, tugging the child out from her hiding place, "…is my little sister, Audhild!"

Sigrid's efforts are just enough to get the girl to mumble out a small "Hi." before swiftly ducking back behind her sister's protective lower limbs, tail waving in the wind. He deliberately ignores it.

"She's not normally this shy," the elder girl admits, "usually, she's pretty bombastic, brave, bouncing-off-the-walls, not, well, hiding..."

An evil gleam settles into her eyes, as a mischievous grin spread over her face. There is something about the expression that Talos does not like, something that spreads unease deep within. How odd.

"I think I know why she's acting like this!" she proclaims, swinging an arm up and snapping her fingers to go along with the apparent revelation. "She's always been _obsessed_ with Huntsmen and Huntresses, telling us so much about how she wants to become one herself, and I think that she's just scared to meet one for real!"

A part of the Lamenter wants to correct her, to state the falsity of her hypothesis, to give a much more probable reason for the little sister's reaction – transhuman dread, he thinks, or perhaps it's just the deep down fight-or-flight response to something so large when you're so small, or… – but he does not.

Audhild frowns, glares up, and shouts back "Am not!", before seemingly remembering his presence, and diving back to her shelter – only to realise that her red-cheeked dodge will almost certainly lead to more teasing, and hesitantly steps out from behind her sister.

"Um," she begins, fiddling with a button on her jumper, "are you really a Huntsman?" she asks.

Talos debates how to answer within himself, even as he drops to a knee and cranes down to almost look her in the eye, before coming to the obvious conclusion in a few milliseconds; "Yes."

Her face brightens at the statement, and she looks up, before snapping back down to the ground, speaking again. "Can you, um," she starts saying, the rest of the sentence falling to little more than a mumble, "can you take off that scary mask, please?"

It is a difficult request to honour. Power armour is an Astartes' second skin, their true face regardless of what they may have been born with. Such a statement is even more true to him.

With some hesitance, he reaches his arms up, and, with a jerk, uncouples the perpetually-snarling helmet, with the _hiss_ of depressurisation. At the disconnect, tactica shut off, for a sudden moment completely shrouding his face in darkness, before he slowly pulls it off, lowering it down to rest it on one knee, looking down once more at Audhild.

Her eyes suddenly widen, and she mouths a word; he doesn't know its meaning, but it seems to him like "Woah". Her previous embarrassment disappears in a heartbeat, now purely fascination, curiosity, awe, all fixed in place.

It is, the Lamenter thinks, strange. He hasn't seen his own face in… years. And yet he is so willingly baring it for a young mortal to see, when he himself doesn't know what he looks like anymore.

To say that he was scarred would be an understatement. His armour alone was only barely yellow anymore, its every surface a spiderweb of cracks and craters and chips and scored-black streaks. The worst offenders are filled up with an ugly grey substance – cement – that has not been repainted.

His face was no exception. What may have once been fair, noble features are marred by dozens of long-healed wounds, old burns on one cheekbone standing out from the menagerie of clefts in his skin. His left ear is missing. His nose has clearly been broken and healed time upon time again. By some miracle, his eyes were untouched, twin emerald lights gleaming out from his ruined face. And hair once cut short has begun to grow into a tangled greying-blond mess.

"Hot damn," says Sigrid, her eyebrows high up on her forehead, "those guys really weren't joking when they called you a 'Veteran'."

A snort is given in answer; it is one of disbelief, and one of comedic value, because he strongly doubts that anyone on the planet truly knows what is meant by that title among Astartes. But his attention is stolen by the little sister that has very suddenly launched into a longwinded almost-rant.

"How many scars do you have?" asks Audhild, questions now coming in rapid-fire form, "can you tell me about all of them? How long have you been a Huntsman? Which Academy did you go to? What's your Team called?"

It takes a very long time before she comes to a stop.

But it is very informative.

…

All three of the remaining giants are watching him; watching their yellow-plated comrade as he speaks with the two mortals, able to see him from the midst of the town's market.

Cor wears the same stony expression that he did the night previous. He's worn that expression longer than his other two allies have been alive.

"He's going soft," growls the one to his left, another fully-armoured Astartes, wearing black and white plate, a cross stamped onto the shoulder, the helmet modelled into a knight's visage, "an Astartes entreating with children. With _mutant_ children. It's _shameful_."

Cor feels that, were it not for the helmet, the Marine would have spat for emphasis. His voice is rough, snarling, laced with static.

The knightly Space Marine is named _Alaric_. One does not need to meet him to know as much, for he wears numerous gilt banners across the plate, all of them etched with his name in High Gothic script. A pair of power swords hang from his hips, though one is more a knife than a sword. Both of them are slightly curved, single-edged blades, with a simple cross-guard each. Their grips are a dark, magnetised metal, and dangling from each pommel is a cross alike those on his armour, while the blades themselves bear short passages of High Gothic prayers. Below each of them rests a bolt pistol, the standard Mark III Pattern.

Before the Scout Sergeant can reply, his other ally cuts him off. "Ser Talos is a Lamenter, a son of Sanguinius. It is only natural for one of their bloodline to invest themselves in the people."

_Eygil_ is his name. But, unlike Alaric, he is not in power armour, but in Scout's carapace, of much the same make as Cor. Raven-black, with a light-warping cloak over his shoulders. He too is wearing a helmet, sharply-angled with a large, chunky swing-down visor. Instead of a combat shotgun, he wields a long, thin scoped rifle, connected up to a back-mounted power pack by a pair of thick cables.

"Hmph." grunts the Black Templar, crossing his arms, but never once looking away from the scene, trapped in some kind of morbid satisfaction. "At least it is clear to me now as to why he proclaimed himself unfit to lead. It's not the only thing he's unfit for."

"No, I don't think you do." Cor allows a sigh to escape, blinking slowly. It is, he thinks, only natural for the Templar to be so unaware. They have no precedent for such a thing as this. _The praetorians have never known the Sable Brand._

When he opens his eyes again, Eygil is facing him, a look of curiosity no doubt hidden beneath his helmet. Alaric pretends to be irreverent, but the older Marine can tell that he is no less intrigued.

He does not elaborate on the statement, and the trio fall back into silence as they continue to watch the son of the Angel. They cannot quite make out what is being said, not from such a considerable distance away, but Cor can guess the purpose of the conversation with ease.

"Besides," he says, a small twitch of the lips almost betraying a smirk, "he has not been speaking to them purposelessly."

"How so?" asks Eygil immediately, focusing intensely on the group atop the wall, trying to puzzle out what his teacher has already noticed.

Nodding, the teacher continues, drawing even Alaric's interest. "Now, we have a valuable source of information, as well as a foothold in the community. If he continues, then we will be able to easily embed ourselves within the culture, and now we can tightly control what the locals know of us while we easily learn of them."

It is devious. It is underhanded. It is a carefully-calculated move.

It is perfectly in-character for the old Veteran.

…

Night has come once again, and yet there is still no sign of any of the promised support.

Talos has long-since abandoned his position on the wall. A distant part of himself pushes to find solitude in the forest. To stalk the leaves and boughs and bushes, to track down his shadow-borne prey, to tear them apart, limb from limb. To find his resolve in the bloodshed of the enemy.

As he stands within the too-small space of what he believes to be a recreational destination for the guardsmen, he forcibly silences that call for death.

Nothing good dwells in that deep, primordial lust.

Instead, he tries to refocus on the sentries' discussion.

A few hours prior, when returning from a patrol – the only one he has been on throughout the whole day – one of the guardsmen had invited him to join them for the evening. Agitated as he was, he was quick to accept. They were a welcome distraction. _Anything_ to keep his mind busy.

And so he was now sitting on a large, reinforced crate, still in full armour, politely nodding along as the chatter spilled around him.

"-and then he says, no really, he says 'sorry to _drop in_ on ya', and I shit you not, the guy _winks_ at me, then takes a swig of his fuckin' flask, before running, yeah, running, like straight up a dead sprint, into the fucking tidal wave of Grimm-"

One of them – there are 19 in the room – is recounting a story, of how she first met a Huntsman. In truth, it is the _only_ time she has ever met a Huntsman, though Talos has been careful to keep up the charade that he is one of the near-mythical warrior caste. Or, at least, that is what he has managed to conclude from how the sentries speak of them.

Her every sentence draws a round of laughter from the other 18, but the last passage of the tale that the Lamenter heard drew in the greatest, most raucous of all so far.

The Space Marine does not get the joke. No, he doesn't get most of them; thankfully, the sentries' constant imbibing of amasec-equivalents have kept them from noticing his incomprehension. It would be most concerning to them, he thinks, if they ever realised he fundamentally couldn't understand their humour.

He occasionally mimics them in their drinking, and the oversized glass has been refilled too many times to count, but every drop of the mind-clouding poison has been neutralised long before it could take hold as it did in them.

Much more notably, he has already gone through three upsized portions of the selfsame meal – a freshly-made local pastry filled with various vegetables and meats, each one several kilograms in weight. The trio of empty platters drew no small amount of attention, and no shortage of jocularity. A Space Marine's diet is, seemingly, an entertaining thing to see.

Yet another rumble of raucous laughter shook the room, as the sentry finished her story. At its completion, the dozen-and-a-half guardsmen broke up into an uncouth, disorderly cacophony of speech.

One voice cuts through the noise, a red-faced Sigrid calling out to the Lamenter, and it is enough to silence the rest of the crowd. "Talos! Let's hear a story about Huntsmen from a Huntsman, eh?"

He goes very still.

Guardsmen break from their small conversations to look over at him curiously, while some voice their agreement loudly, baying for a story.

After a long silence on his part, something indescribable crystallising in his mind, an unfamiliar _thing_ knotting in his stomach, hearts now pumping, thumping, racing, he grinds out a response. "I do not think any of my tales will interest you."

Some of the more sober frown, and try to dissuade their comrades. But their efforts are waved off, as there comes the shout of "C'mon! You've gotta have a _ton_ of stories!"

Very carefully, Talos tries to slow his hearts. The twisting feeling in his digestive tract intensifies. An analytical side of him distantly notes that what he is experiencing is not unlike _fear_. But that's… preposterous. Impossible. Insane. Space Marines did not _feel_ fear. Mortals couldn't possibly worry him. But still, the feeling does not pass.

"I do," he admits, "but all of them have the same conclusion."

"Oh, 'course they do, tha's just how Huntsmen work, innit?" says Sigrid, to a cheer, "But, c'mon, man, let's hear one of them."

One of the sober ones seems to realise something, their expression turning grave. He is an older man, dark-skinned, with little in the way of hair on his head, and what little he did have was already greying. Talos is truly surprised at how loud the man can bellow. That analytical side notes his age and inclusion unto the group, and identifies him as a former guardsman, possibly a leader of some form, a Commissar-equivalent.

"Shut it, you lot!" is how he introduces himself, shooting to his feet and glaring viciously at any that continue to speak. Only after the crowd falls silent as one does he sit back down.

Then his expression softens somewhat, as he looks the Astartes in the eyes from across the large table, a certain weary melancholy that Talos thought to be disturbingly familiar, but couldn't quite place.

"Let me guess," he says, quietly, but it is clear that all are listening to him, "every one of 'em ends in 'and then they died too'."

A slow nod is the answer.

Comprehension dawns on the guardsmen. The Lamenter is unsure as to what they're comprehending, but it is enough for them to start desperately changing the topic of conversation, and that is good enough for him.

He does not get to relish it for long, as a shadow appears in the establishment's only doorway, an old raven with a grave expression.

…

Deep inside a mountain, a hundred men and women in white and black uniforms tear into the walls. Monstrous wolf-skull masks hide their faces as the uniforms hide their bodies, but one thing they bare proudly are extra pairs of ears, or horns, or tails. All of them carry tools, some powered, some not, and they put them to use in hollowing out the mountain.

Of them, they've separated into dozens of small groups, chipping away at the mountain's innards, carving out an equal number of tunnels as there were groups digging.

Two exceptions to that rule walk behind their mass. A tall, lean, ginger-haired man in a silvery-white overcoat and bowler hat smokes as he watches their progress, idly twirling a metal cane as he does. He is accompanied by a towering mass of flesh and muscle. The "bodyguard" also wears the uniform and a more intricate mask, but leaves his arms bare, the skin there rippling with movement and bedecked with tribal tattoos. An immense chainsword hangs over his shoulder.

"Y'know," starts Roman, "we've been down here 'n digging for a good few weeks now, and we're _still_ digging. I'm really starting to think that our 'benefactors' are just jerking us around."

His tone is lighthearted, passive. He speaks frankly, doesn't draw attention to his statement; it's said as if it was hardly noteworthy, spoken in passing interest, a simple, harmless observation of fact. It's anything but.

Hesitantly, the lieutenant gives his response.

"I'm of half a mind to agree with you." he admits. It takes a great deal of effort, though even then it hides the ugly truth that he did indeed agree with the human, deep down. Such a thing rankles him. "But it's not as if we can stop. I'm not stupid enough to challenge that woman."

Merely thinking of her is enough to send a shiver of fear up and down his spine. He has already seen what she does to uppity, all-too-expendable _minions_. The sound of flesh bubbling, bones crackling like kindling; the screams still haunt his dreams. No, the lieutenant has decided, he would not risk a bath of liquid fire.

None of this is said to Roman, but it is communicated well-enough in that simple statement. The master criminal doesn't visibly react, but nods his head in silent agreement.

"Hey! We've got something!"

Both men snap-focus as a grunt comes jogging up through one of the myriad tunnels, an arm raised as she shouts to them. When their eyes land on her, she turns, and goes running right back down the freshly-hewn stone hallway.

The two glance at each other, surprise evident. Then they follow, Roman with an eyebrow raised skeptically. As they walk, they follow the shadows cast over the walls by the grunt as she runs, jogging past both simple lanterns and floodlights connected up to thrumming generators.

Eventually, she comes to stop in a small chamber, hollowed out by careful efforts, large wooden beams set up as supports, both in the tunnel and the recently man-made chamber.

It's maybe twenty cubic metres large. Seventeen of the White Fang's foot soldiery work at expanding it, but they're focused on digging _downwards_; a number of broken drill-bits and shattered picks are gathered in a corner. It's clear to see why.

Right in the middle of the room rises the tip of a perfectly-preserved onyx pyramid.


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: Right, not got much to say here. Uh, enjoy the Chapter, I guess.**

**Oh! And thanks for the praise, reviewers. Much appreciated. Though, I'd find it a little more useful if you could be a bit more specific; I'd like to know **_**what**_** I am doing well, rather than just that I am doing well. And also, if I'm doing something badly, I'd like to know, so that I can work on improving. **

"**Good chapter" is nice to hear, but something like "characters are well-written" or "prose is pretty good" is much more useful. Likewise, "bad story" (which I haven't received yet, thankfully) also isn't helpful; if you want to give criticism, something like "descriptions are too specific" or "overusing X term or phrase" is much preferred.**

**Thanks!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything from either work I'm writing about. Or any work, in fact.**

In the light of a rising crimson sun, there flies a Bullhead.

A large, fat, but smoothly-shaped aircraft, with a pair of tiltjets nearly the size of the aircraft itself for propulsion, sliding doors on either side beneath the wings. Dull grey, with a heavily-armoured and darkened cockpit. Very little about the pudgy jet appeared like it was intended to fly.

Currently, it is roaring through the sky at Mach 2. Over rocky mountains and deep valleys, forests both evergreen and autumnal, as well as much less mundane treetops. From above, it is a solid blanket of wildly-varying hues, impenetrable with the bare eye. It is perfect camouflage for anything smaller than the trees themselves, which unfortunately included nearly every single enemy the average Huntsman had to contend with.

Not a single one of the Bullhead's passengers bother to watch the flora pass by. It'd be nothing they haven't already seen at least a dozen times over, and they'd glean nothing from looking over it.

Of those passengers, there are four Huntsmen. Well, Huntsmen-in-Training, anyways; second-years they are, tried and tested students that could kill anything less than an Elder without significant issues. Team CFVY, otherwise better known as Team Coffee.

"Alright," speaks one of them, "we're getting close to the drop-point, so brace for a quick stop."

She is tall, wearing black and light brown; trousers of the former colour, a long-sleeved shirt of the latter, a large belt bearing a string of bullets, several pearl necklaces and a black scarf sharing the space around her neck. A similarly-black beret is worn over dark-fading-to-light brown hair, though her eyes are obscured by a pair of aviators. Slung over her shoulder is a black handbag, with gold studs along its bottom and another brass belt of metal slugs on its strap.

_Coco Adel_.

Eight hands grab tight to overhead grips, legs bending slightly, preemptively readying for a sudden change in momentum. From among them, the second-tallest reaches for the handles with almost supernatural smoothness.

Dark, scarred, calloused skin is exposed to the air by a dark orange sleeveless vest, the same shade as his hair, alongside black jeans, and two burnt orange bracers on his arms bearing large, curved blades that extend past his elbows. Milky white eyes betray his blindness, though it hardly seems to impede him at all. Numerous pouches dangle from his waist, holding ammunition and the ever-critical Dust.

_Fox Alistair_.

Amongst them, their smallest has no trouble getting her hands in the handles, though her long, bushy brown rabbit's ears brush against the top of their vehicle.

She's slim, and slight of frame, but it belies the real muscle beneath her pale skin. She wears a short but long-sleeved chocolate brown jacket with gold armour on the cuffs and shoulders, a pair of shorts of the same colour and with the same gold detailing on its edges, and beneath that she wears black leggings, heels and toes armoured as well. A gold belt wraps around her hips. From that, against the base of her spine, there hangs a conspicuous black box with gold edges.

_Velvet Scarlatina._

The tallest bumps his head against the roof as he stands up, and actually _dents_ the heavy armour with the impact. Not one of his fellows react; at least, not overtly, though he knows at least one of them is hiding a smirk, though he's not even pretending the smile isn't on his face.

Mint-green short robes wrap around his torso, darker pants over his legs, armoured green-and-black boots and gauntlets protect his extremities, and a five-layered spaulder on his left arm completes the simple ensemble. Over his back hangs a massive, single-edged curved bronze greatsword, the very tip of the blade hooked over backwards, to provide a lethal tearing effect against anything the giant can't cleave clean through.

_Yatsuhashi Daichi._

Their brace doesn't last long. In fact, the jet slowed to a stop in less than thirty seconds, switching to hover mode with an abruptness that would have easily knocked out someone less sturdy through little more than the g-forces.

Although they moved to the doors, they fully intended to wait out the landing procedure; that plan of action is quickly cut off by a shout from their pilots.

"Holy shit!" one of them curses, followed by the other, "What the fuck happened to Midvale!?"

Hardly a second after that yell filtered through the intercom, they throw the left door open with a grinding crash, looking out over the town set midway between Vale and Vacuo.

Looking down over what is left of it, anyway.

Wooden houses are broken to splinters, shattered ruins that still burn in the crimson morning light, though many of them have been charred to ash and blackened timber, most just smouldering. Intriguingly, the centremost ones are those still alight, while the further from the middle the more dead the flames. The wall is oddly intact, aside from a few gaping, crumbling holes, and the gate is broken down to several massive shards.

Even from their altitude, they can see the bones of slain Grimm that piled up beyond the walls and littered the streets, several chokepoints so saturated with their bones that Velvet would be buried up to her hips in the dead monsters. Out, beyond the town, heading off to the north-west-west, there is a massive dearth of trees, a long stretch of broken boughs layered with yet more bones.

But what most draws their attention are the few small, raging fires outside the town's mostly-intact bunker. Evenly-spaced, wrapping blocks of wood and thatch. Their purpose is clear, even to young Huntsmen-in-Training that've never faced such devastation before.

Funeral pyres.

…

They move as one.

Four transhuman soldiers sweep through the boughs of cold trees, lit intermittently from those small canopy-holes far above. It is a rapid, constant, unrelenting movement.

Scouts push forwards silently, darting between shadows, one ahead and one behind, weapons pressed to shoulders, ready for anything to strike at any time. Full-armoured Marines follow, watching over each other in silent fury, one wielding twin bolt pistols and the other a scratched and dented boltgun in one hand.

Talos carries a bundle of blankets in the crook of his opposite arm, one that stirs slightly with every bump and jostle. His armour has been burnt black. No more harmed than it ever is, but carbon-scored.

He has never hated the forest like he hates it now, for slowing them so unspeakably much.

…

Coco grimaces as her next step makes an all-too familiar _crunch_. An ursine skull shatters beneath her foot, breaking apart at the slightest pressure. Normally, the sound of Grimm bone breaking was a pleasant one, but in this ravaged town, she can find little to enjoy.

But, as she glances down at the pile of bones that she walks upon, she spots something; a small, brassy glint, deep beneath the grim remainders.

The team leader punches her fingers down through the calcified internals, and tears it free in a single smooth motion. White light flares up around her arm as she does. Bones crack and crumble with ease, sharp shards blunted or broken where they press against the skin and the cloth.

Holding it up to the early morning light, she looks it over.

A bullet casing. No, scratch that; it's far too high calibre to call it a "bullet", _shell_ is far more fitting, though it seems far too short for such a large projectile. 20mm, she guesses. An oily, greasy substance clings to the casing, and the inside is coated in dirty black… _something_.

Nothing too strange for a gun out in the frontier.

Much odder are the markings on it. She doesn't recognise any of the symbols, none of which are consistent with any arms manufacturers she knows; a two-headed eagle, only one eye, engraved with numerals of some kind. A serial number? On a shell casing? If so, it's not using any numbering system she knows.

Her eyes narrow at that. It seems perfectly in-character for a Huntsman; strange emblem and archaic language, too-large calibre…

But no Huntsmen were deployed between Vale and Vacuo. At least, no _licensed_ Huntsmen. That's the whole reason it took a full day to get someone down here – _clearly, a day too long_ – nobody was near enough nor available to respond in time.

With a _click_, she takes a photo of it, and the casing is slipped into a pocket; evidence, she thinks. The image is quickly sent off, alongside the rest of her pictures of the ruined Midvale.

Distantly, a part of her thinks on how fitting that name is for the original town. She came here, once, on business. It was a nice place to stay. Bit too rustic for her tastes, but still, a nice place. Set midway between Vale and Vacuo, in the middle of a small valley. A gulley, more than anything. Simple, fitting, easy to remember.

And now, it will be forgotten.

Behind her, Yatsuhashi is looking over the bodies. A part of her wants to gag at the burnt corpses, but it's ruthlessly suppressed. Coco can tell she isn't alone in those thoughts.

He's almost as green as his armour. Despite that, his eyes are hard, his face unreadable. He's going to blame himself later, for arriving too late. It's the reason why he volunteered to check the dead. To never forget the faces of those he failed. He'll probably seek out their undamaged pictures too.

That line of thought is shoved aside, and the team leader focuses in on her job. Worrying can come later, when they weren't trying to uncover the cause behind a slaughter.

Fox confirmed it, earlier, when he checked the generators, and the fence. Somebody had cut the power. Dust particles near the breaches suggested explosives, according to Velvet. Many of the bones are still hard, meaning that a number of Grimm arrived late, after a good deal of citizens were already dead, with the most recent remains trailing off into the devastated forest.

Strangely, the local CCT pylon is all but untouched. With just a little bit of effort, they easily managed to turn the thing back on.

"Coco, come take a look at this." says the green giant, crouched over a few of the bodies, pointing at their torsos. His leader jogs over quickly, pushing down rising disgust as the smell fully hits her.

An eyebrow raises as she pays them careful observation. Yatsu quickly steps in to clarify. "Their wounds."

Two of them are split clean in half. With a start, she realises the injuries are far too clean for a Grimm's doing. So clean, in fact, that it's almost like they weren't cut at all, but simply… fell apart. A third has been shot, several times, but the small entry holes are hard to pick out from a Grimm's savagery. Fourth and final fifth have obviously been stabbed, six or seven times each.

"Not the Grimm's doing." he says, unnecessarily.

All of them are human.

Looking at all the evidence so far presented to them, it seems pretty clear what happened. Grimm are stirred into a frenzy, whipped up over the course of several nights. White Fang – _bloody fucking terrorists_ – attack. Cut the power, blast open the walls. Grimm attack.

But something sticks out from that order of events. The trail leading into the forest. The possible rogue huntsmen. The funeral pyres. The pylon. Why would the Fang stick around after destroying the wall? Why would they – or some random illegal rogues – kill off all the Grimm? Why would any of them give _humans_ a funeral? Why leave the communications equipment unharmed?

It just doesn't make sense.

She's pulled from the depths of her mind by a call from Velvet, one small piece of good news from among many other much worse tidings. "Found something!"

Coco pulls away from her close friend's grisly duties, quickly jogging over to the Faunus member of their team. If Midvale were more intact, then she may have taken a winding, twisting route through small streets and alleyways, seeking out the distant cry of her teammate. As it is, she just crosses straight through the empty husks of old buildings formerly consumed by an inferno.

The meeker student is stood alone, next to a pulled-apart pile of Grimm remains. She's holding a Scroll – a small, flat device that slides open with a tug, with a translucent screen and a marble-coloured frame – only a short distance from her face, tapping away furiously.

With a small jump at the leader's approach, Velvet begins to explain. "I've been digging through the largest piles to see if there's anything hidden beneath them, and looking through the houses as well, and I managed to find-"

Coco cuts her off, a certain excitement building, anticipation bubbling within her chest. "- a working Scroll."

Velvet nods slightly, just the once, and hands over the device. "It doesn't have a password, or anything. I, uh, checked. And I've already had a look at its, uh, messages."

Before the leader can begin looking through it with her friend, her own Scroll buzzes in her pocket, and it is surprising to hear it go off so suddenly. A response? Already?

Flicking it open, her heart damn near stops.

A priority message, from Ozpin himself. Their principle, the head of Beacon, and one man with a direct hand in all field operations his students undertake.

It's a simple message.

"Hold position," she reads aloud, "DO NOT PURSUE. Await Crime Scene Investigations and arrival of veteran Huntsmen. Repeat, DO NOT PURSUE."

…

Far away, an old, old man in his late thirties leans back against his chair, fingers steepled before his face. His eyes are shut, face frozen in some indescribable mixture of unreadable and so, so tired.

"Things are unfolding far too quickly." he laments to nobody, as his eyes slide open lazily. The speech bounces around his office, a wide-open space, devoid of any furnishings except his desk and chair, large clockwork gears shifting above his head. A window behind him looks out over something not quite a castle, a clock's hands ticking just in front of it.

"Your inaction is the root of your troubles," answers someone, "you were forewarned of this. And what it means for your future."

He has yet to decide whether they are a ghost, a fragmentary figment of his ailing mind, or a premonition from a long-lost friend.

"What more could I do?" is the man's reply, quiet and defensive. "I cannot act freely. Not without proof, without actual evidence. I'm not like you, with nigh-on ultimate authority."

They're tall. Too tall to be a human or a Faunus. Wrapped in ornate armour up to their neck, gleaming red gemstones dotting its surface, a cape – or perhaps cloak – hanging from their collar. He stands, turns away from them, stares out through the window.

"We both know that to be a lie."

He wants to ignore them. It's terribly, terribly tempting to dismiss them as an apparition from his past. But he is well-aware of the truth most probably being very, very different.

A retort dies on his lips as he turns back. They're already gone, vanished from his office.

Quietly, he sits back down. His upsized Scroll remains where he left it – discarded to the side, on the desk, the messenger application open on its almost translucent surface. Scooping it up, it suddenly feels a thousand times heavier, and his arm is sluggish in its motions. But he soldiers on. As he always has. As he always will.

Thinking carefully, he begins to type out a dozen different messages, to a dozen different contacts. Only half of them will be leaving for Midvale.

…

Deep inside the fully-autumnal forest, the four Astartes at last slow to a stop. No light graces their forms, though whether that is due to the wild canopy's sheer thickness or because night has fallen, they are unsure. It is worth figuring out later, they have unanimously yet silently decided.

What has been not so silently yet equally unanimously decided is that they will stop.

Alaric simply stands. His bolt pistols are locked in their places below his swords. Crimson eyes glare unflinchingly at his most senior companion. Fists clench and unclench with murderous frequency. He remains silent nonetheless.

Talos lumbers to a halt, stopping beside a tree nearly as wide as he is tall. His back _thunks_ as he leans against the super-oak, the ground shakes as he _thumps_ to the ground, sliding into a sitting position.

His bolter never leaves his grip throughout the entire motion, though he shifts and shakes to keep the bundle as safe and comfortable as possible. He's not very successful.

Audhild sits up from her wrappings, rubbing sleepy eyelids with tiny balled fists. Something in her eyes is dead – not quite comprehending, not exactly thinking. It is a look the Lamenter has seen on too many mortals to count. However, that is not totally all-encompassing. Faintly, some small part of childhood's spark is still there.

It is almost enough to convince him that she will recover from the… ordeal. Then, of course, she asks the very question he has been dreading, that has haunted him since they abandoned the dead town.

"Talos?" she asks, blinking blearily as she looks around their small group. "Where's Sigrid?"

Very slowly, he releases the snarling helmet from his head, setting down the boltgun just long enough to remove his true face. But he finds that he cannot face her. So, like a coward, he doesn't. He instead looks up into the treetops, appearing chiseled out of stone. It takes him a long time to answer.

"… I could not save her."

Incomprehension blossoms across her features for a moment. A youngling's inability to understand death. To fundamentally understand that heroes rarely won, and never was it without sacrificing.

Before it can progress further, Alaric's booming, growling, static-laced voice cuts through her concentration with better efficacy than a meltagun through a Guardsman.

"Couldn't save her!?" he roars, "Couldn't _save_ her! You-"

A black-clad hand wraps around his main sword's hilt, he stomps forwards, the blade begins to pull free of its scabbard. Just as the first letters of High Gothic written along its fuller escape those dark depths, a raven-black shadow manifests in front of him.

Talos does not move. The only reaction he expresses is to shut his eyes.

Eygil stands before the Templar, his own helmet discarded to reveal adolescent features. Brown skin frames stormy grey eyes, a short, flat mohawk his only concession to hair. His sniper rifle hangs freely from the cables connected up to a backpack mount and the strap around his torso, but his hands are close to its grip.

It is enough to make Alaric freeze in place. He is sorely tempted to draw anyways. To split the damned fool Neophyte that would dare defend that – _thing_ – in half, then repeat the feat on his next and his _real_ target. From inside his helmet, Alaric seeks out the other Raven Guard, the older one.

Cor stands at a considerable distance; the Templar realises that it is just the perfect range that all the spray from a Wyrmbreath shell will hit him. Or, just within range of an Amputator shell. He stands still, casually leaning against another of the massive trees, but Alaric's autosenses can spot the way his shooting hand holds his shotgun – finger not quite on the trigger, but close enough.

The threat is clear enough to him. Impotently, he slams the blade back into its sheath, turns fast enough to give a mortal whiplash, and begins to walk. None of the others stop him.

The young Raven Guard Scout steps forward at first, as if planning to say something. His sergeant just raises a palm, and Eygil drops it. Both of them still watch as the Initiate storms off, one of them anxiously, the other in utter stoicism.

Once the Marine is no longer visible, they begin to speak again.

"Ser…" begins Eygil hesitantly, "…should we really let him simply _leave_?"

Cor seems to give the question some degree of contemplation. Snorting once, he shakes his head. "No. But he's not going to leave. Let the child rage. He'll be back in a mere few hours."

Recruit glances from Sergeant to the path where the lost Marine left. It is a quick motion, as he purses his lips and creases his brow. "How can you be so sure, Ser?"

Now he outright _laughs_. A full, bellyaching cackle, from deep within. It is garnished in the rough tones of the Scout Sergeant's speech. "Where else does he have to go?"

Silent, Eygil turns back to the two elder Marines. He stares, concernedly, at Talos, at the child cowering in his arms and his blank stare into the what would be the sky almost anywhere else on the planet. _Yes_, he thinks, _he bears the Sable Brand_. But that doesn't make sense. It's supposed to be a flaw unique to the Raven Guard. But how else does one explain Talos' quiet, almost _timid_ countenance? His suicidal, raging combat style?

A mystery for another time, muses the would-be Marine, unhappily. Something to discuss with Cor, at length – as well as what they are to do about it. No longer can they live with the Marine's… insanity.

…

In the streets of a city, houses of clay and sandstone surrounding him, a man walks; though "skulks" would, perhaps, be more appropriate. He moves swiftly, albeit unsteadily. Most of his body is concealed by a cloak of crows' feathers, but no effort is made to hide the folded up single-edged greatsword on his back.

Silently, he tails someone, drifting from doorway to alleyway to rooftop to street and back again. It's a careful balancing act, a long-practiced skill. Whenever the target glances back in sixth-sense paranoia, they never once see the man on their trail.

That someone is hardly interesting. Average height, same dark skin of any natives to the hot, desert region, clothes of any commoner – a loose green-grey shirt with fluttering white trousers and dull headscarf for keeping the heat off her head, nothing out of the ordinary. Only detail that sticks out, to most, is the snake's tail that flicks about seemingly at random.

The man can pick out some other things. The target walks with her hands held out in front of her, stiffly strolling, eyes watching everyone and everything carefully. She twitches at faint sounds.

Obviously, that is a woman with some experience in combat. A soldier trying desperately to pretend she is anything but. Not very successfully, either. It might fool the casual observer, but this man isn't any casual observer.

He follows her up until she discretely ducks into a side door in an alley, knocking a pattern, and muttering a counter-phrase.

And that is his objective.

Just as he starts to concentrate, starts to _fold_ – a buzz disturbs him. Reaching into a top pocket under the cloak's mass, he pulls free a Scroll. An older model, bulkier and chunkier and far more rugged. It bears a short message, directly from his "employer". That thought brings a macabre smile to his face. Yeah, sure. "Employer".

But the message draws his attention. Both his eyebrows shoot up his forehead at its contents. Almost without intending it, he mutters out a response, pointlessly. "Recall, huh?"

He glances down at the holdout. A few pictures are snapped, enough to salvage the overall operation, and then he looks out into the horizon, out over towards where his only family still live. A long sigh is blown out through his lips, blinking slowly.

"Looks like I'm gonna be seeing you girls real soon."

And then he turns, and a dusty old crow leaves.


	4. Chapter 4

**AN: Only got one small thing to say, and it's that I have changed a few small things about Remnant to fit a plot outline better – most notably, the fact that Grimm disintegrate within seconds, except for their bones, which linger for a good few hours more but still disintegrate. Okay, the "few small things" is a bit of a lie, but I can't tell you how much is different without spoiling a hell of a lot of things. I can tell you that most of volumes 1~3 happen pretty much the same as in canon, albeit with a few extra things added in on top.**

**And some things in this chapter are going to be pretty dark. **_**Grim**_**dark.**

**Enjoy!**

"It seems," remarks Ozpin, "that every day grows more dire and complex than the last."

The ghost is back again. He can see them, just over his monitor. Regal and imperious, proud and mysterious, ancient and young. The headmaster can't recall the last time he felt the same.

"Hardly any worse than it was fourteen thousand years ago." they reply. Oz is hard-pressed to disagree, even if only out of a want for them to be wrong for once.

Shaking his head, the headmaster has an answer. "You've never dealt with Space Marines before. Nor the Imperium, and its colossal war machine. They have a tendency to cause small problems to explode into much larger issues."

They snort, "Neither have you. Only ever been told by others."

He doesn't reply to that. Instead, he pointedly focuses on the monitor on his desk. It is the source of all his frustrations, and the source of all his solutions. _How ironic_.

At the moment, it has several images held on its holographic face. Pictures from the destroyed Midvale, sent by Team CFVY or by the CSI team or both. The burnt, broken houses. The empty guard's posts. All the now-fading bones. The funeral pyres. And, of course, the bodies.

Some are wearing White Fang uniforms, specifically uniforms that identify them as being from the Vacuo cell, but most of the bodies are civilians. Numerous guards lay dead as well. Most of the Fang corpses can barely be recognised as bodies, being broken into pieces, as if a grenade went off in their chest. A few are scorched, with a large chunk torn out of their torso. A couple more have been split so finely in two that it seems as if they simply _fell apart_.

Most of the townspeople are dead of wounds caused by Grimm. Many were killed by human weapons, several broken and battered by blunt force trauma, others split apart just as finely as the Fang, a handful more dead by stab wounds or gunshots.

Almost every single one of them have been identified, despite the impromptu funeral that has "suspiciously" consisted only of humans. Oz knows full-well why.

Except for a little Faunus girl named Audhild Vermillion, whose disappearance has the investigators in a near panic.

Other pieces of evidence – bolt and shotgun shell casings, mostly – also dot the screen, but the centrepiece is an amalgamation of a few recovered transcripts from Scrolls, and the four "suspected rogue Huntsmen".

He looks over them – the battered, yellow-clad and silver-armed Sanguinary Guard, the twin Scouts in void-dark, the knightly one in white and black – and begins to mutter out a long-forgotten tale from long ago.

"When the Broken Angel brings the Tyrants of the Shade and the Noble of Thorns to the Remnant, enemies awaken anew as the End walks the world. When the Old Witch breaks her bonds, the trifold Four meet at last. Thirsting gods cackle and curse as the Thirteenth comes."

The ghost stirs at that. "So. You haven't forgotten it after all."

Ozpin blinks once, and they are gone.

In their place, there comes a _tap-tap-tap_ at his window. Turning swiftly, he reaches over to the small piece that opens separately from the rest of the tower's clock, and lets the crow in.

…

_Folding_, the bird quickly expands out into a man, a silvery-white long-tailed dress shirt worn loosely over his chest, a cloak of feathers hanging from his back, spiky grey-black hair and a jaw coated in a thin layer of stubble. A folded-up greatsword hangs from the base of his spine, single-edged and angular.

"Heya, Ozzie!" he says by way of greeting, winging his arms up in a mocking offer for a hug. One hand is clutching a small steel-grey flask, from which he promptly takes a long swig.

For his part, the headmaster is unreadable as always, though he twitches slightly with amusement. "Qrow." he says politely, before gesturing at the chair on the opposite side of his desk.

Taking another swig, Qrow just gives a small shrug, then slumps down into the seat. He swings his feet up to rest them on the wide desk, planted just on the top-left corner, from Ozpin's perspective. The headmaster sits down across from him, and it is straight to business.

"I assume that you've heard of Midvale?" says the old wizard, raising his omnipresent coffee cup to take a sip of his own.

Frowning briefly, Qrow replies immediately. "Yeah, 'course I have. Been through there a good few times myself. Nice place. Somethin' happen to it?"

"Sadly, yes." Turning the monitor to face the operative, Qrow almost spits out his latest swig at the devastation.

Growing serious, the veteran Huntsman gains a dangerous gleam in his blood-red eyes, focusing in on the four obviously-Huntsmen, narrowing his eyes at the transcripts and statistics. "What happened there? Think those four have something to do with it?"

"Exactly what I want to know. And, unfortunately, they had almost everything to do with it."

Scratching his chin, Qrow memorises their appearances, even if the shots aren't too great. All the evidence is compiled too, even the wounds suffered by the bodies. "Want me to hunt 'em down?"

"Yes," begins his employer, "but not exactly. Find them. Get me in contact. Avoid engaging if you can. I'll be sending you with a second year Huntsman Team in the area. They're already investigating at the site."

Raising a single index finger as the veteran began to retort, he cuts off his complaints with a single sentence. "I'm aware that you work best alone. However, these four are significantly more than you can handle alone. This is not up for discussion."

Qrow sighs, long and slow, sipping from his flask again. "Fine. When am I heading out?"

"Ideally, within the next three or four hours."

…

Three Astartes and one mortal child wait deep in a forest, surrounded by immense trees spawned by uncontrolled growth.

Every one of the giant soldiers hides their face beneath a helmet. They stand or sit in silence, the only sound the whistle of wind between the super-oaks, and the snore of a dozing girl. After Alaric's outburst, Audhild buried herself back beneath her blankets, pressed up against her protector's hard chest-plate. She did not speak again, eventually drifting back into thankfully dreamless sleep.

He cradles the child gently, if awkwardly. The small part of him that recoils at her touch through the haptics desperately wants to set her down. Lay her down, and focus on something more useful, more important; something like cleaning his weapons, maintaining them with what little he still has.

But that part is small. It has no foothold in the rest of his self. Ruthless pragmatism has not held sway over his mind in almost a century. He intends to keep it that way.

His reflection is disturbed by a click in his ear, a crackle of a vox-link. Displays in his vision say it to be the young Scout – he picks out Eygil at the edge of his autosenses, to his left and away. Talos acknowledges the request for dialogue, returning the click and crackle.

"I wish to speak with you. Privately."

Talos almost turns to look at him in surprise, but keeps his reaction hidden. Whatever he has to say, it is clearly not something the Scout wishes to include his master in. Mildly worrying.

"Speak, then." he returns.

Eygil fidgets, for a moment, pacing in something that looks like a perimeter patrol, but is most likely nothing of the sort. Snipers are rather terrible for securing perimeters, unless acting as support from a range, after all.

"Something is wrong with you. Not the Sable Brand, but something like it." confesses the young Marine, "I want to know what. Resolve it."

Ice, or something like it, clutches at the Lamenter's hearts. He perseveres, regardless, but this conversation is enough to put him ill at ease.

"… I'm afraid I do not know what you mean."

A careful response. Glancing over at the Raven Guard, he wonders how much they know. Neither can know of the Twin Curses. It is clear what he must do if they know – but he cannot bring himself to bear his arms against the raven and his teacher. At the same time, he knows what must be done. That, if he cannot fall in battle, someone else must end him. And he knows that it will not happen before it is too late.

"Throne damnit, don't try playing dumb, you're not stupid enough to not notice. You fight like you mean to die, with every battle. You fly off the handle, tear into anything near enough for that axe's smile to bite, revel in the bloodshed, and then spend your time silent or brooding." Eygil says, but the Veteran is surprised at how schooled the younger Astartes' reaction is.

Talos grips his boltgun once again, and begins planning how best to execute both of them. Snapshot into Cor's back, while he's turned to the outside of their little camp. He wouldn't even see it coming. Burstfire into Eygil, ideally while he's still reeling from the abrupt shot into his old friend's spine. Set up a trap for Alaric, jury-rigged Amputator shells from Cor's munitions turned into a mine.

His preparations are cut short by the Scout's next statement.

"For Audhild's sake, this cannot continue." and despite himself, the Marine locks back onto the abhuman's peaceful face, remembering her presence in his arms. "So help me Corax, I'm not letting you sit there in silence as you suffer, regardless of what you want."

Swiftly, he clears the cobwebs in his mind. Targeting reticules fade and dissipate, plans for combat vanishing as fast as they appeared. His pragmatic side is forced away, torn from the forefront. He wonders how he even let it go that far to begin with.

Both Marines' voices fall to dead air. It hides the conflict raging inside the Lamenter with disturbing ease.

_I will have to tell him_, speaks part of Talos, Oath, the part that watches over Audhild's sleeping form. _But none may know of the Curses_, argues Duty. _It is better that you take the secret to your grave; a single abhuman is not worth the death of Sanguinius' progeny_, argues Pragmatism.

_It would hardly be the first time_, speaks Lament,_ that you have cost lives like hers_.

And that is enough to convince the Veteran.

He begins slowly, hesitantly.

"Swear to me," he speaks, "that you will not speak of this to another living thing. That you will sooner die of the most depraved of tortures than tell of it. And I shall tell you."

It takes a quiet, seconds-long pause, before the Marine whispers "I do swear it. On the life and the honour of the Emperor, on the silent walk of the Primarch, I swear it."

He is sincere, Talos is sure. Astartes do not break oaths. So he tells him.

With great difficulty, he tells the younger cousin of the Angel's Flaws.

"We call it the Red Thirst." the Veteran explains. "A deep, primordial calling for blood and death, baying for us to bathe in it, to drink it from our fallen foes, anoint ourselves in the crimson fluid. Some control it better than others, but it is always _there_. Great, fanged jaws that snarl and gnash in our souls, begging for release. It is at its strongest in combat. Hard to ignore, though keeping the mind busy with even the most numbing of tasks is enough to distract you from it. But is is still there."

He gives a dark chuckle. "I am not very good at controlling it."

Eygil stiffens at the explanation, fingering his rifle's trigger. It is as if he now suddenly expects his comrade to draw his axe and fly into a rage at any moment. To his shame, that is an accurate analysis.

"And that is not even the worst of it, Neophyte," continues the son of Sanguinius, "for we also suffer the Black Rage. The lost psychic screams of the Great Angel's final moments, all that rage and hatred and despair and loss that still yet haunts us, coming at random, often late in life. Hallucinations of the battle against the Arch-Traitor; unwinnable, but we cannot control ourselves nonetheless. We are lost in the memories, trapped eternally fighting him, forever doomed to lose." The Scout now watches him, anxiously.

"I have begun to see the Death Visions."

Talos shuts his eyes at the close of that statement.

He sees great fields of fire, feels the press of bodies and blades. A single name is on his tongue, yet it is not one he has ever spoken before in his life. Wings not his own beat on his back for a moment, before the memory of a dead demigod collapses, replaced with one of his own, of yellow-clad Marines dying a hundred thousand different ways as innocents are lost far more often.

Blood congeals on the memory's hands, unforgettable. They shake. It is not the life-fluid of traitors or xenos. The bliss of the action is still there, lingering, though now he sees the victims more than the blood. He hears their cries, of shock, of fear, of betrayal. Faces of death, frozen in silent terror.

Faces like Sigrid's.

Opening them once more, he finds the Raven Guard Astartes not even pretending not to be focusing in on him. What expression the Scout wears goes unknown to him. For a moment, the Astartes entertains the notion that it might be pity.

A static-laced response begins to form, but it never finishes, as the rapid _swish-thump_ of a Space Marine's sprint interrupts him. Simultaneously, something screams overhead, soaring for the town.

In an instant, they are all standing, weapons shouldered, and Alaric comes charging into their vision, pursued by a tidal wave of _black_ and _bone_. His swords are drawn, beautiful in their own right if not masterfully-crafted, and he cuts through limbs that reach too close, yet never slows his stride.

The child is woken by the sudden leap to his feet, and Talos roars out a command. "Cover your ears!"

He doesn't check to see if the abhuman follows his instructions, firing his bolter one-handed into the mass of Grimm that break through the forest, carving long rents into the massive trees but still breaking around them as if a flood of liquid shadow rather than solid pitch-dark muscle.

It is impossible to miss, but the 28 bolts are expended in an instant. The bolter barks and spits out the shells, blasting chunks out of the horde, yet fails to do much more than that. Still one-handing it, he shifts the youngling up onto his shoulders. She clings close to his helmet as she presses down low between his power-pack and his back. While she does, he reloads.

A half-second after Talos runs out of bolts in his gun again, Cor is firing. But his shotgun makes no such noise, it doesn't even flash as it sprays buckshot into the Grimm, though the massive 8-gauge shells tear the beasts to pieces where his shots land. Interspersed between the invisible buckshot come Amputator shells, massive blasts of fragments that rend apart flesh or armour as easy as Power Weapons through paper, and Wyrmbreath shells, huge gouts of liquid fire that coat swathes of the beasts in creeping flame.

Steady, slow _hiss-cracks_ of a high-power laser weapon pick off heads from the mass of bodies, blasting apart flesh and bone with heat transfer. Big Alpha Grimm are swallowed by the horde as their headless corpses tumble to the ground, trampled into mush before they can even begin to disintegrate.

It is not enough.

Regardless, the Astartes continue to pour firepower into the rushing wave of black flesh, white bone, and vermillion blood, but they slowly trek backwards, focused entirely on gunning down the horde.

Eventually, Alaric begins to catch up with their gradual retreat. So too do the Grimm.

Their blistering display of firepower is enough to slow them, if only barely. Barely enough to let the Black Templar reach their kill-team. Barely enough to begin actually falling back.

Umbral forms still close to melee range nonetheless.

Alaric meets them. Twin lightning-wreathed blades a blur of violence, he cuts through them, elegant parries and slashes and slices and chops and stabs and cleaves, an economy of motion that seems more a dance than a fighting style. Always is he facing his foes, never does he commit too much or too little to a strike, every swing is a killing or maiming blow of some kind. Claws come close but never even scratch the heraldry of the Templars, always dodged or knocked aside at the last second before delivering a brutal riposte.

It is clear that he deserves the title of prodigy. Talos recognises that, even with experience on his side, a fight with the would-be sword saint in close range would doubtlessly result in the Lamenter's loss.

Red touches his vision anyway, as his mouth involuntarily begins to water. _Something_ pushes him to close in, to join Alaric in the fray, and he only realises what he's doing once the axe is already in his hands.

But by then it is too late, as he is lost in the violence and nearly swallowed by the wall of black and bone, roaring a primal battlecry and baying for blood, for death, for these traitors to die, for the maddened once-brothers to fall to his blade, as he sinks it into betrayer flesh, screaming oaths of violence, howls his rage and sorrow into the sky, speaking names of the traitors, breaking open Power Armour with vengeful blows of fist and feet, sword arcing elegantly through necks and chests and limbs, one bellow of wrathful lamentation above all others-

"**HORUS!**" screams Sanguinius, wings broken and bloodied, sword still held high in rage and defiance, tearing through the maddened black ranks of the XVI Legion. "**WHY!?**"

…

Adam is many things.

A terrorist. An assassin. A leader. A freedom-fighter. A nihilist. A cold-blooded killer.

One thing he isn't is a scientist.

It's not that he's stupid. One look into his past can show that much; violent and capricious, certainly, and more than a little spiteful, but never an idiot. Well, not quite. His early days were quite dumb, even for a child and – later – a teenager, times he has long come to regret sorely.

He knows the basics, like the laws of gravity, ballistics, practical engineering, Dust sciences, enough to build his sword and maintain it. Or make a high-explosive bomb, if he ever needs to.

Which is precisely why his current orders didn't make any fucking sense.

The Faunus had been given a hefty detachment of the Valean Fang, and received his instructions digitally. A simple encoded message, sent through several proxies and hidden channels on the CCT network, before arriving on his personal Scroll.

It chafed at him to obey a _human_, but the threat of a swim in sapient napalm is enough to get anybody to follow your orders. It chafed at him even further to be sent to the far edge of the continent, hunting some or other "readings" that he couldn't even parse. Something to do with Dust reactions and Aura fluctuations in local flora.

Like a good little minion, Adam packed his shit, grabbed his troops, and marched off into the ass-end of the Valean wilderness, hunting down the supposed "source" of these readings.

At the moment, they were on day 9 of their little hunt, and a good deal of the two companies he'd been given were already questioning his authority – not to mention his sanity. In all honesty, so is he, but he'd never admit it to anyone, least of all his underlings.

So far, they'd found nothing but Grimm, more Grimm, some actual natural wildlife, and, oh yeah, more fucking Grimm.

Sitting in his tent, leaning back in the fold-out chair, Wilt and Blush sheathed on his lap, he considered their status. Thankfully, nobody had died yet, though a good 27 grunts were still recovering from their wounds, a full 1/9th of their force. _Thank the Brother Gods for Aura_, he thinks. _Still probably have to stop off in Midvale to resupply_.

He's still clad in the black coat and pants that he's always wearing, bright red shirt below that, mask unusually missing from his face, hands still gloved. His auburn hair is the same swept-back styling it has always been, the two horns on his forehead nearly impossible to spot amidst the sea of red. His good eye is shut, head lolling back. The other eye, the mass of scar tissue under a brand bearing the letters SDC, remains no more open than it ever is.

"What am I _doing_?" he murmurs to himself. "What am I doing on Vacuo's border? Why am I not in Vale, tracking down that treacherous bitch, or keeping Torchwick honest? Why am I hunting godsdamned sensor ghosts and not burning down Schnee assets?"

"Why indeed, Mister Taurus?" comes a croaking, almost _strangled_ voice, one that sort of reminds him of a parrot.

Instantly, he stands, turning, hands locking down around Wilt and Blush, knocking aside the chair in a smooth motion as he prepares to draw, single baby blue eye snapping wide open.

He comes face to face with… well, he can't quite describe it. It looks almost like a Faunus, albeit one that is very severely inhuman, to such a degree that Adam would have admired it, if not for the fact that the thing is so grotesque he couldn't imagine how it lived from day to day.

It has a vaguely humanoid shape, if one could call a bird-person _humanoid_. Two arms and two legs and a head on the shoulders, but that is about where the similarity ends. Scaly, thin legs hold it up, disappearing into robes coloured dirty white and inexplicably crystalline despite moving like cloth. Feathered arms clutch a staff of dark wood and bone, white smoke drifting from it, the head shaped like a ball while the smoke shaped itself into two tails, one drifting upwards and the other downwards.

Its head is a twisted mockery of a bird's, with a large, curling beak and blue feathers and glowing orange eyes.

Despite his reaction, the _thing_ didn't even move from its position leaning on its staff.

"Who are you?" Adam barks out, still ready to draw. "How did you get in here?"

Disturbingly, it begins to make something he is hesitant to call laughter, before responding as he began to tighten his grip on his chokutō. "Oh, so suspicious. Very good. Very good."

Hobbling forwards for a moment, it steps right into his range – in fact, it stops right where his draw would end on its neck, even if he didn't move anything except his arms. _Ballsy_, he admits, inwardly.

"Who I am is unimportant," it crows, "but, if you need a name, you may call me _Changer_. I'm no enemy of yours."

Nodding at the statement, it gives an almost-bow. "What I know is much more important than I myself will ever be."

"Yeah?" mutters Adam, "what do you know that's so important, then?"

He doesn't like it. Dealing with people that can look at what they have, and decide their life is worth less than what they know. They're always dangerous, especially if they're right.

"I know you chafe at that human harlot that commands you," it begins, "and I know that all you wish for is revenge; to make the world bleed for all its injustices. I also know what you seek, even if you do not."

Reaching into its robe, it produces a small pendant, an eight-sided star made of jagged metal, an eye in the middle. Something about it sparks unease in the Faunus' stomach, and it seems to warp and bend in the light. Pulsating, almost like it's alive. But in turn… he can _feel_ the power behind it, the sheer commanding presence condensed down into the tiny pendant. It's almost _intoxicating_. He can't quite look away from it, but the thought doesn't worry him – if anything, it interests him _more_.

"This?" asks the terrorist to the Changer. It seems to smile in agreement, before speaking once again, its beak not moving in time with its words.

"You seek power, Mister Taurus. I know where you can get it. Enough to make your dreams a reality, and plenty enough to more than match the witch in combat. And it all begins with this amulet."

Slowly, he accepts the pendant from the Changer, releasing his palm from Wilt's grip, outstretched to hold the eight-sided star…


End file.
